


The Scorpion and the Frog

by susieboo (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Awesome Molly, Crime, Deception, Drama, F/M, Mind Games, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/susieboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty shows up out of the blue, two years after his "death," demanding the help of the girl he'd once had trapped in his spiderweb. But Molly proves to be far smarter, stronger, and more devious than either of them ever knew. [Molliarty. Destruction, deceit and attempted murder on both sides. Badass Molly and Creepy Jim abound.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

  
_Open me up and you will see_  
 _I'm a gallery of broken hearts_  
 _I'm beyond repair, let me be_  
 _And give me back my broken parts_  
“Be OK” by Ingrid Michelson

* * *

 

Sometimes Molly almost wished Sherlock hadn’t needed her help.

Of course, she was eternally glad that he was alive, and flattered (and maybe even a little relieved) that he had deemed her important enough to ask for her assistance in faking his death, but, as it turned out, pretending that someone was dead while surrounded by his grieving loved ones was anything but easy. Sometimes the guilt made her want to rip her hair out. Sometimes it was bad enough that she’d go home and cry, with only her cat, Toby, for company. As affectionate as the small, charcoal-colored feline was, he did not make for a good grieving companion. Although there was very little doubt in her mind that Sherlock was grateful for her help and did in fact care about her, she almost laughed at the idea of sharing her stress with him. She could almost picture how the conversation would go.

“Molly.”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

“…No. How did you know?”

“It was obvious, really. The way you’ve been buttoning your shirts—“

“OH-kay, well, that sounds very interesting and you’ve certainly caught me, now, haven’t you?”

“…”

“…Sherlock?”

“Yes? …Oh, right. Um…” He’d stop to clear his throat before he recited the line: “What’s bothering you, old chap?”

“You don’t have to call me—“

“Molly.”

“I guess I’m just… feeling guilty.”

“Guilty? Whatever for?”

“For lying to everyone about you being dead.”

“It is for the best, Molly.”

“I know, but—“

“You’re doing the right thing by helping me. If you didn’t lie it would only make matters worse.”

He would try to comfort her (in his own, completely emotionally detached way), she was sure, but she doubted it would be very effective, especially since Sherlock was currently someplace in Austria. He’d occasionally text Molly to keep her posted, and, at her insistence, to let her know he was still alive. Sherlock said that she was being ridiculous and paranoid. Molly said that wherever Sherlock was concerned, there was no ridiculous or paranoid.

She was just finishing up the paperwork for another corpse when the first texts in three days came.

_Still breathing. Had an interesting run-in with some drug smugglers in Linz, though. No matter. I survived. – **SH**_

_Powdered sugar is much more flammable than it has any right to be. – **SH**_

_And as it turns out, so am I. – **SH**_

Molly decided she didn’t want to know. She sent him a message back ( _“Do be careful. – **MH** ”_) before returning to her work. Working in a morgue wasn’t exactly the most cheerful of professions, especially not for someone like Molly, for whom things never worked out, but Molly preferred to keep a positive attitude and cheery mood despite. Rather than think about whatever Sherlock may have been through that apparently involved drug smugglers, powdered sugar, and flames, she chose to think about the evening that lay ahead of her. Watching _Glee_ , drinking cocoa, and watching the snow fall in the London night.

It would’ve sounded peaceful if it wasn’t so pathetically sad.

* * *

  
When things got particularly lonely, she found herself thinking of Jim.

Not Moriarty. _Jim_.

Then, of course, she’d mentally slap herself and remind herself that that man was the reason Sherlock was in constant danger, why she was living a lie, and why hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were dead.

They had only been on three dates.

One of those had been watching _Glee_ with her cat.

He’d just been using her to get to Sherlock. So he could kill him. Burn him.

These facts did not taint her memories of him, much to Molly’s frustration.

Most of the time, keeping busy with work and Sherlock (it was like babysitting an overgrown toddler from across the globe, honestly), she was able to keep her mind off of him. This, however, was not one of those times. A week before Christmas, nearly three years since “the Woman” incident. John, who she’d been mostly avoiding out of sheer guilt, was off in Scotland with Mary. Lestrade was going to be working. And Molly had no other friends, no family to spend the holiday with.

And so, with a heavy heart, she found herself thinking about Jim once again as she opened the door to her flat, fully expecting to spend the holiday alone, again.

This year, however, that would not be the case.

“Hello, love.”

Molly let out a scream and dropped her keys.

Jim Moriarty was sitting on her couch, grinning.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

  
_When I appear,_  
 _It’s not so clear_  
 _If I’m a simple spirit_  
 _Or I’m flesh and blood._  
“I’m Alive” from Next to Normal

* * *

Faking his death had been surprisingly easy.

Pretending to _stay_ dead, on the other hand, was harder.

Jim had anticipated some complications in his plan, of course. Nothing ever went precisely as planned in his line of work, and he had long since learned to plan around it. Still, nothing quite beat the sheer _boredom_ of being dead. Staying in a fancy penthouse in Yorkshire was entertaining for a week, at most.

Moriarty had grown restless.

And in his long periods of sleepless boredom, he had devised, revised, and set a plan into motion. A plan that, conveniently enough, required him to leave the penthouse. Behind Sebastian’s back, of course. Moriarty was sure he’d get quite a stern talking-to once he arrived back home.

Jim let out a long, annoyed sigh as he looked at the clock. Molly should’ve been home ten minutes ago. The ice probably didn’t help make travelling any easier, but really, it was just across town. Would it kill her to arrive on time for their surprise meeting? Some people, he thought to himself, had no consideration at all.   
Fifteen minutes after Molly usually arrived home, the door to the flat creaked open. A wide, cat-like grin spread across Jim’s face.

“Hello, love.”

Molly let out a scream and dropped her keys in surprise, brown eyes widening when she saw her unexpected guest sitting on her couch.

“Dreadfully sorry,” Jim said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. It just seemed a bit cold to wait outside so I let myself in. Toby and I have become reacquainted.”

(The cat had been hiding in the corner, hissing in Jim’s direction for nearly half an hour now.)

He ducked as Molly threw a book at him. It hit the wall behind him and fell to the floor.

“Now, Molly,” he said, almost in the same tone a parent would scold a child with, “that’s no way to greet a guest. Goodness, Sherlock was at least courteous enough to offer me _tea_ …”

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Molly spat in a tone so vicious she surprised even herself.

“Don’t be rude. I’m just here for business reasons.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“Sit down, Molly.”

“Why should I?” she asked, attempting to sound braver than she felt. “What’s stopping me from calling Lestrade right now?”

The real problem with asking those kinds of questions, is that you tend to get a very swift answer.

“Just sit.” To answer her question, he whipped out a pistol from his back pocket and pointed it lazily at her.

Molly sat, but she didn’t look happy about it, nor did she sit anywhere near Moriarty. She took a seat in the rocking chair next to the TV, not taking her eyes off the man for a second.

“What do you want?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice even and calm, gripping the arms of the chair very hard.

“It’s not what I want, it’s what I _need_.”

He was speaking in that maddeningly calm, sickeningly charming voice again, the one he’d used when he was playing “Jim from I.T.,” when he’d needed Molly to be in love with him.

He didn’t _need_ her to be in love with him for this plan, but he had to admit that it would’ve made things a little easier.

“Molly, I am in dire need of your help,” he said, looking quite pleased with himself. “You are one of maybe five people on Earth that know Sherlock Holmes is alive—“

“He’s dead,” Molly said, a little too quickly.

Moriarty’s wicked smile grew. “Oh, Molly, my _dear_ … I think this will be much easier on us both if we agree right now not to lie to one another.”

“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” she snapped, clearly not having forgotten how their first involvement had ended.

Moriarty blinked in surprise. Did Molly Hooper just snap at him?

He shook it off and continued. “Bits of my web have been coming down, one by one, and it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out who’s behind it all. And I imagine when you fake your death, it helps to have a morgue worker up your sleeve who will do nearly anything for you…” He shot Molly a smug look. “I can’t have my entire network collapsing on me now, Molly. Everything I worked for, gone in a second!”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I could probably take Sherlock down on my own, with Sebastian’s help,” he mused, not really caring that Molly wouldn’t know who that was, “but by the time we managed it, he’d have taken down half our web! The less pieces we lose, the better. And with your help… we’ll be back on top in no time.”

“And why, exactly, should I care?”

Jim’s cold eyes flicked up and down, looking her over, like a wildcat surveying its prey. Just before the pounce.

“I could waste time and threaten to kill you, or offer you money, but I know you’re far too _noble_ ,” he said the word like it was a repulsive insult, “to let those things affect you. You’re loyal, I’ll give you that. But you’re also weak.” He let out a high, cold laugh. “You allow everyone to walk all over you, constantly. Lestrade, Sherlock… even me! You were the easiest mark I ever had!”

Molly’s voice was quiet and cold. “I’m not weak. And I’m not going to help you.”

Jim simply shrugged and rose to his feet. “Fine. I’ll let you sleep on it. But know this; if you tell Lestrade, Sherlock, anyone about this little chat, people will die. People don’t care about you, but you care about people. It’s in your nature, and I have Sebastian ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. He’s a good dog, only responds to his master’s voice. So let’s keep this between us, hm?”

Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to nod.

“There’s a good girl.” He strode towards the door, opened it, and stopped one last time to have a final word, not even turning around. “You _will_ help me, Molly. The only question is whether you’ll help me because you’re weak… or to prove to me that you’re not.”


	3. Chapter Three

  
_There ain’t no rest for the wicked,_  
 _Money don’t grow on trees._  
 _I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed._  
 _There ain’t nothing in this world for free._  
“Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked” by Cage the Elephant

* * *

Sebastian Moran was a tall, spindly insect of a man with ragged blond hair and sharp gray eyes. Despite the dog tags hanging from his neck and the tattoos which covered his arms, you wouldn’t give him a second glance on the street. This fact was exactly what made him perfect for the role of Jim Moriarty’s personal sniper.

Although the two men worked very closely, they were rarely in the same room, or even in the same city. Not only did their constantly busy schedules cause them to travel frequently, but it was simply too risky. It would be bad enough if someone managed to strike down just one of them, _both_ … The criminal web would be left in shambles, and the power vacuum that they would leave in their wake would surely lead to problems. Sebastian considered it a public service, not getting himself killed.

Sebastian was, morally speaking, a wild card. As much as he enjoyed his work with Jim, he was primarily in it for the money, and everybody in the criminal underworld knew it. If Sherlock had offered Moran more money than Jim did, Moran would’ve worked for Sherlock. But, for now at least, his loyalty lied with Moriarty.

His busy schedule often meant that Sebastian didn’t get an opportunity to see his daughter in person, but he didn’t let a little thing like being across the country from her stop him from talking to her.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” he said, balancing his cell phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he fired off another shot as the underlings tried to run away. Today’s targets were simply drug addicts that had failed to pay, child’s play to Sebastian, really, but it was better than no work at all. He fired another bullet and took one of them out with one clean shot to the neck. “I’d love to see you over Christmas, but with my job…”

“Aw, I hardly see you anymore!” Viola Moran said. Sebastian smiled when he heard a gunshot of her own the background of the call. Oh, she had definitely taken after her daddy…

“I’ll visit you soon, Vi, I promise.” He ducked behind a large crate for cover as one of his targets began firing back. He was still grinning as the bullets whisked past him, reveling in the excitement and adrenaline.

He was counting bullets in his head, and just when he thought his opponent had run out… they got out a machine gun.

“Okay, one of _those_ jobs,” he muttered to himself. “Viola, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

Sebastian hung up, put his phone back in his pocket, and hopped up, firing back. His time in the army had given him time to put his impeccable aiming skills to good use, but ever since his dishonorable discharge due to an incident involving a series of unfortunate events that had quickly spiraled out of his control, he had had to settle for off-the-grid jobs like this one to satisfy his urge for danger and destruction. Three more shots – _Bam! Bam! Bam!_ – out of the blue took out the last remaining targets, and Sebastian Moran stood alone, save for the dead bodies littered across the floor.

“Excellent show,” Moriarty drawled from his place at the warehouse door. Moran hadn’t noticed his showing up.

“Ah, Jim,” Sebastian said, smiling broadly. “You weren’t at the house when I left… How’d you find me?”

“Followed the chaos.”

“Good man. Where’d you go, anyway? I thought we agreed it wasn’t safe for you to—“

Jim groaned, sounding more like an annoyed teenage boy than a criminal mastermind. “To hell with safe, I’m just so damn bored,” he complained, waving his hand. “I had to get a bit of work done. You know how much I love watching you intimidate people, but Molly’s easy. I handled her just fine on my own.”

“Think she’ll help us?” Moran asked, stooping down to examine one of the dead men’s watches. He pocketed it.

“Obviously. The poor dear was scared to death just at the sight of me! Didn’t even need to tell her about the bomb, she knows me well enough to know that when I say people will die, people _will_ die…”

Moran grinned again. “And if that doesn’t get her moving, we’ve got our ace in the hole.”

“Exactly. Now, let’s get to work at seeing if any of these fine gentlemen have identities we can use.”

* * *

  
_The Czech Republic’s weather is awful this time of year. Headed to Italy sometime next week. – **SH**_

_Point of interest: don’t ever pickpocket a pack of cigarettes from a Czech drug lord. They don’t like that much. – **SH**_

_Also Czech cigarettes are bloody terrible. – **SH**_

_Your daughter borrowed my vegetable peeler again. You keep her under control or her skull will go right next to the one on the mantel. – **JM**_

_Sorry, Molly, dear. That was meant for someone else. – **JM**_

_Text me back anyway. I’d love to hear from you, Molly. – **JM**_

Molly stared at the last two messages for a good long while when she came across them, sorting through the texts she’d received while at work. (Sherlock had insisted she not answer any texts during work hours, lest one of her coworkers look over her shoulder and see his name.) Jim had her phone number? She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. He did have her address after all. She inwardly debated with herself what to do, but ultimately decided to pretend she’d never seen the text at all. He was just baiting her, probably. The person that text was supposedly meant for probably didn’t even have a daughter.

* * *

  
_Jim wants you to stop using his vegetable peeler. – **SM**_

_Fine. What does he even need a vegetable peeler for, anyway? …What do you suppose he’s peeling? – **VM**_

_Vegetables. – **SM**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a filler chapter, I know, but I wanted to establish Seb’s personality in this one. Next one will be more relevant to the plot. And before anyone asks, yes, I’m aware that Moffat has said Jim won’t be returning for series three. I recognize that Moffat has made a decision, but seeing as how it’s a stupid-ass decision, I’ve elected to ignore it.


	4. Chapter Four

_Darling, there's no sense in running._   
_You know I will find you._   
_Everything is perfect now,_   
_We can live forever._   
_You can't abandon me._   
_You belong to me._

 

“Surrender” by Evanescence

* * *

 

 

_You can’t hide forever. – **JM**_

_I’m not hiding. – **MH**_

_Then you’ve given my offer some thought? – **JM**_

_Yes, I have. – **MH**_

_Ah, good! I knew you’d come through. – **JM**_

_And I decided to tell you to fuck right off. – **MH**_

_Oh, don’t be like that. – **JM**_

_I can be very convincing, you know. – **JM**_

_You know, judging by this lovely banter we’ve got going here, I think we’d make great coworkers. – **JM**_

_Molly, if you don’t text me back it just seems sad. – **JM**_

 

 

* * *

 

Although she played the part of a stoic, hard-as-nails woman who was not the least bit intimidated by the consulting criminal, Molly was constantly looking over her shoulder in the weeks that followed. She went straight to work every morning and went straight home every night, not stopping on the way and not speaking to anyone she didn’t know. And ever since the “Jim from IT” incident, she’d even been a bit wary of those she knew, though she’d slowly relaxed in the past two years. Just when she had begun to trust again and stop worrying, Moriarty reappeared. It was so unfair she could scream.

 

Even things at work were deviating from her normal routine in ways she didn’t like. Oh, she still had dead bodies to take care of, plenty of them, but a new trend had been cropping up in them, one that only Molly seemed to notice.

 

When she was inspecting the body of a young man that Lestrade told her was called Billy Thompson, she gasped when she found something on the back of his hand.

 

Someone had carved an “M” into his skin.

 

Lestrade frowned. “You know him?” he asked, sympathetic.

 

She shook her head. “No… no, I just… It’s not important.”

 

And she hoped desperately that it wasn’t. She hoped it was just a coincidence.

 

Three more bodies in rapid succession, all found in the same place. The police said it was the same killer. And Molly found the “M” carved into each of their hands.

 

One of them was a child.

 

She’d stopped sleeping with the lights off, opening the door for anyone after dark, and refused to walk anywhere alone at night. Lestrade had taken note of her behavior and worried greatly, constantly asking Molly if she was alright. Molly brushed his concerns off, telling him nothing was wrong.

 

“I’ve just been a bit jumpy lately,” she “explained” to him one day when he voiced his concern for her for what must have been the fifth time. “I’ll be over it soon, I’m sure.”

Lestrade frowned, clearly unconvinced. “Molly, if something’s going on, you can tell me. No matter what it is—“

 

“I know, Greg. I know. Believe me.” She felt terrible lying to her old friend like this, but she had to. It was to protect him. “Don’t waste your time worrying about me.”

 

“You’re not a waste of…”

 

“I have to go home, Greg,” she said. “I’ll see you at work, okay?”

 

“…Okay.”

 

And so, she sat there on her couch alone, with only her cat to listen to her concerns. She desperately wanted to tell Sherlock what was going on, but she didn’t dare. As a general rule, if Jim Moriarty said he would kill someone, you should believe him. It was the safer option. She wasn’t about to betray Sherlock, but she was, as much as she hated to admit it, terrified of Moriarty. He was a monster. He’d strapped bombs to people and killed at least one of them that way. He had tried to kill _children_ , for God’s sake.  But Sherlock, Sherlock had been there to save the day.

 

She couldn’t rely on Sherlock now. It was up to her.

 

Molly sighed and got up, moving into her kitchen to make herself a pot of tea. She stood calmly at the kitchen counter, putting the tea bags into the boiling water, back to the rest of the room, taking a sip of the freshly-brewed drink before sighing, putting her cup down, and saying, “How long have you been here, and what do you want?”

 

When she turned around, sure enough, she saw Moriarty sitting at her kitchen table, eating her leftover Chinese delivery.

 

“About ten minutes,” he said.

 

“My door is locked.”

 

“Yeah, but your window isn’t.”

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

“Minor detail.”

 

“Jim, what do you want?” Molly asked, doing her best to sound more annoyed than afraid.

 

“Don’t be rude. I’m just here for business reasons.”

 

“And to eat my food.”

 

“Sebastian forgot to do the shopping. Now,” he gestured to the empty chair across the table, “why don’t you have a seat?”

 

Molly glared at him, but sat down anyway. “Put any weapons on the table.”

 

Jim seemed amused. “You don’t trust me.”

 

She glared at him again.

 

“…Smart girl. Here.” He dug into his pockets and put a gun, three knives, and a vegetable peeler on the table.

 

Molly decided not to ask what he was peeling.

 

“Molly, I don’t think you’ve really thought this whole thing through,” Jim said, idly stretching his arms. “Working for me has several benefits, short term and long term. The pay is much better than what you earn now, I can assure you.”

 

“Do you offer dental?” Molly asked, deadpan.

 

Jim didn’t appear to notice the sarcasm. Or maybe he just didn’t care. “No. But if you don’t join my ranks, people die, so…” He clucked his tongue in mock-regret, and then gasped as if he’d just thought of something. “Oh, but wait! You let _four_ people die already!” He giggled in a way that made Molly shudder. “You’re even worse than I thought!”

 

Molly’s voice sounded just a little too rushed as she said, “What do you want me for? I barely count.”

 

“Maybe not to _Sherlock_ , you don’t. But to me, you can be quite valuable, Molly. You have more medical knowledge than me and Seb put together. You know how to handle a dead body.”

 

“And you don’t?”

 

“ _And_ you’re not wanted on every continent.” He paused for only a second before adding, “ _Yes_ , including Antarctica.”

 

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

 

“Sure you weren’t. Most importantly, you know where Sherlock is.”

 

“I’ll never tell you.”

 

“…You will.”

 

Jim Moriarty rose to his feet, kissed Molly on the cheek, and left.

 

Molly didn’t get a wink of sleep that night.

 

 

 

* * *

 

“So, she still hasn’t cracked?” Sebastian asked, kicking the punching bag that Jim was holding in place for him.

 

Jim clicked his tongue. “Nooo… she’s grown a spine since I’ve seen her last.  Even the murders haven’t swayed her.”

 

“Damn, I worked hard on those, too. What’s the next plan?”

 

“Force her to see things our way.”

 

“Kidnapping. Got it.”

 

“And then we’ll have a little game set up for Molly…”

 

 

* * *

 

 

About a week after she’d last seen Moriarty, Molly was walking home after work. The sun was going down, which made her nervous, but she kept to the main streets and kept her wits about her. She hoped Moriarty wasn’t stupid enough to attack her in public.

 

Maybe Moriarty wasn’t. Moran, on the other hand…

 

She felt a thick, muscled arm wrap around her abdomen and a gun press against the small of her back. She could tell, even from where she stood, that passerby wouldn’t notice—though they might notice Molly’s look of utter terror.

 

“Miss Hooper,” a gruff voice said. She hadn’t been expecting that—she’d been expecting Moriarty’s high-pitched drawl.

 

“Who’re you?” she whispered.

 

“No one of consequence. Why don’t you let me pay for a taxi ride?”

 

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

 

“Miss Hooper, I think this will go much smoother and with much less blood if you just do everything I say. So, what do you say to a little cab ride, hm?”

 

“…Okay,” she heard herself say, unable to keep the fear from her voice. “Where are you taking me?”

 

“Don’t ask questions.”

 

“Let me go.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Moran loosened his grip on her waist, and came into Molly’s full view. He was dressed far more formally than usual, dog tags hidden underneath a businessman’s coat and button-up. The blond man smiled cordially with a grin so wide, it could have put the Cheshire Cat to shame. He graciously took Molly’s hand in his own and kissed it, despite (or perhaps because of) her obvious discomfort.

 

“So lovely to meet you, Miss Hooper. I’ve heard all about you from Jim. You can call me Sebastian.”

 

And he led her gently yet forcefully to a cab, sliding into the back seat with Molly, keeping a firm grip on her wrist the entire time, as if to make sure she didn’t try to get away.

 

As if Molly wasn’t too paralyzed with fear to move.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this update is late, but hopefully this chapter made up for it! I have two small tidbits.
> 
> Since every chapter starts with song lyrics, I’ve made a playlist for it. Every time I add a chapter, I’ll add a song to the playlist. The link is on my profile.
> 
> Second, this story exists in an alternate continuity. It’s set post-TRF, but everything from there is up in the air. I may use the ending of HLV, but who knows. I’ll just have to see where this thing goes.

_Babe, you’re a tough game to catch._

_You fight and refuse—oh, you’re a wild little bruise!_

_Never tasted a sweet a poison as you have,_

_You know you never can hide._

_You’re a bad little love, and you’re mine._

“Trust Me” from The Devil’s Carnival

 

* * *

 

“So,” Sebastian said pleasantly as Molly stared out the window of the cab, “how long have you and Jim known each other?”

 

She tossed him her best “are you bloody serious” look. “Are you really making small talk with your hostage?”

 

“‘Hostage’ is… such an ugly word.”

 

“What do you prefer, then?”

 

“‘Forceful guest.’”

 

“…You have problems.”

 

He grinned at her. “I take pride in it, Miss Hooper. Now, why don’t you tell me all about your stint dating Jim?”

 

She avoided eye contact as she replied, “We never dated. He pretended to like me so I would introduce him to Sherlock. And for Sherlock, he pretended to be gay to throw him off the trail. And then he pretended to be gay and into Sherlock. I… think.”

 

“Jim’s a confusing one, isn’t he?” Sebastian chuckled, oddly serene about the entire situation. “He’s looking forward to seeing you, Molly.”

 

“…Yay…”

 

Molly shrunk away from Moran, her body against the wall of the car, though he still kept a firm grip on her wrist. She turned her gaze out the cab window again, though the windows were tinted and the roads were dark, so she couldn’t really see where she was going, or even what their cabbie looked like. Her free hand gripped at the fabric of her trousers, clenching and unclenching, as she took deep breaths and tried to calm herself. She couldn’t give in to Moriarty’s plans. She was strong. She was not the weak, spineless little girl she’d once been, not like she had been when he was “Jim from IT.” She may not have had the nerves of steel Sherlock had, but she had enough backbone to deal with Moriarty.

 

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

 

The cab finally came to a stop an hour or so later. She wasn’t sure where they were, but she was sure that they were far out of London. Would anyone notice if she didn’t show up to work the next day? Would they even know where to look for her? Molly didn’t have much time to dwell on her questions, because Moran had gotten out of the cab and opened her door for her, as if he were a gentleman. Molly got out of the cab (as if she had a choice in the matter), and hugged her arms tightly to herself.

 

“Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, Miss Hooper,” Moran said, leading her to the darkened porch of what appeared to be a large penthouse in the middle of nowhere. He knocked twice on the metal door, Molly staring at her shoes, too afraid of what laid ahead to even get a good look at her surroundings. As the door creaked open, and Moran led her inside, her mind was whirring. Questions hit her from all angles, and she couldn’t even begin to contemplate them all. What would happen to her? Was Sherlock starting to worry that she hadn’t contacted him? Would Lestrade notice if she stopped turning up at work?

 

Was Moriarty going to kill her, or worse, someone else?

 

She could deal with the prospect of her own death. Being around corpses for most of your life—first at her grandfather’s job as a funeral home owner, then during her father’s terminal illness and eventual death, and then at her own job—gave you a very realistic outlook on the idea of dying, but it wasn’t a frightening one. Ever since she was a little girl, Molly had understood that she would live, she would die, and no one really knew what came after. Some people claimed to know, but no one had any proof one way or another, and wondering and worrying about it too much would drive you mad if you let it. It would happen to everyone, death was inevitable, and so was the not-knowing. Although it had confused her as a child, Molly had long since come to terms with the terms of existence, and it didn’t really bother her. She didn’t _want_ to die, but she would if that’s what it took to appease Moriarty.

 

And at this point in her life, she had very few regrets. Yes, she would’ve liked to meet the right man and settle down and have a family, but she had lived a good life. But the thought of people dying because of her was more than she could handle.  

 

Molly blinked as they entered a completely pitch-black room, letting her big brown eyes adjust to the darkness. She saw nothing but shadows and the outlines of some furniture. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, Jim Moriarty had appeared, inches from her face, grinning at her through the blackness. Molly willed herself to not gasp or jump, but even as she managed a calm-sounding, “Hello, Jim,” she could feel her heart hammering against her chest, threatening to jump up into her throat.

 

“Molly,” he drawled, smile growing. She heard Moran chuckle behind her. “So glad you could make it.”

 

“You going to turn on a light or are Anderson’s vampire theories true?” she asked, trying her best to keep up the nonchalant, “I’m-not-afraid-of-you” front. She doubted Moriarty would buy it, but if nothing else, it made her feel the slightest bit braver. Not much, but enough to keep her knees from caving in.

 

Jim let out a high, cold giggle. “I always knew he was an idiot, but that’s a new one. Lights.”

 

At the last word, some unknown source flipped a switch, and all the lights came on at once, causing Molly’s eyes to squint to keep from hurting. Jesus, did he have to make everything annoying?

 

Jim straightened his suit and brought Molly to sit at a metal table, not unlike those police sat criminals down at to be interrogated. The irony almost made Molly laugh a little bit, though that could’ve been fatigue and stress getting to her head. She’d had a rough day, after all. Moran stood behind Jim. Molly vaguely wondered if he was going to crack his knuckles to look intimidating—not that he wasn’t intimidating enough already. Jim sat down across from Molly.

 

“Since you wouldn’t even consider my very reasonable offer,” he said, “Sebastian and I decided some field experience may be just the push you need to realize how stupid you’re being.”

 

“You’ll never convince me,” Molly said through gritted teeth, crossing her arms.

 

“Never say never,” Jim replied with a nonchalant shrug. “See, I believe that when you give people a little power, you find out who they really are. You, my dear, are someone who has never had any power, not at all… and I’d love to see what lies underneath that sugary-sweet mask you wear.” A wicked smile curved his lips, taking up half his face.

 

“I’m not wearing any mask,” Molly said, thinking—or rather, hoping—that it was true. “This is just how I am.”

 

“Nah… nah, you’re lying.” Moriarty clicked his tongue, shaking his head a bit. “If that’s just how you are, you’d be one of the angels… and anyone that lets four people die to keep one person safe isn’t one of those.” Molly shuddered as she was reminded of those people that had turned up in her morgue.

 

“The world isn’t just angels and psychopaths, Jim,” Molly said. “It’s not nearly that simple.”

 

“I’m usually right,” Jim said nonchalantly. “You’ll see. Your first day of field experience starts tomorrow. We’ll take you on a little field assignment.”

 

“And if I say no?”

 

“I blow up a hospital.”

 

“Of _course_ you do.”

 

“You’ll be staying upstairs. Don’t worry, we have a nice room all set up and ready for you, love. One thing about working with the devils—better living.” Jim rose to his feet, and motioned for Molly to do the same. “Seb will take you up to see your room now. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow!” Moriarty turned to leave, but paused to add: “Oh, and don’t worry—I’ll send someone to feed Toby.”

 

 

* * *

 

The room was, indeed, quite beautiful, but that didn’t soften the blow of the sound of the door locking behind her the second Sebastian escorted her there. Licking her lips, Molly looked around, hugging her arms to herself. A canopy bed, just like the one she’d wanted as a little girl, sat in the middle of the room, pink drapes and all. The silk sheets were deep purples and pinks, with a plush quilt to match. A small chandelier hung from the ceiling, and even the carpeting felt good underneath her feet after she slipped off her damp shoes. There was no window.

 

Crawling under the covers, still fully clothed, Molly contemplated her situation. Trapped in a penthouse with two psychopaths. Sherlock in some unknown location, probably halfway across the globe. Cell phone confiscated, and no way to access the internet or a phone. She’d be taken on a “field assignment” the next day, and God knows what that meant. She probably didn’t want to know.

 

Molly couldn’t help it.

 

All the strength and snarky comments she’d had all day suddenly deserted her, and, curling up into a ball, she let a few sobs escape her, her body shaking. God, why did these things have to happen to her? To _anyone_? She knew crying and worrying about would happen wouldn’t do her any good, but she couldn’t stop herself. Tears stained her cheeks, dripping onto the expensive sheets. The thought of what Jim would say to her tears harming the exquisite fabric made her let out a few choked, bitter laughs in spite of herself.

 

“H-hello?”

 

Molly’s head snapped up at the sound of a small voice coming from someplace nearby. Not in her room, but close. Slowly, hesitantly kicking off the blanket and sliding out of the bed once more, Molly crept towards the sound. It seemed to be coming from the corner.

 

She found a small hole in the wall, small enough that one might not have noticed if not actively looking for it.

 

Kneeling down, Molly peered through the hole with one brown eye.

 

A single, silver-blue eye stared back.

 

“…Hello?” Molly whispered.

 

The eye, filled with tears, blinked. “M-Molly H-H-Hooper?” a woman’s voice breathed, sounding as though she’d just been crying.

 

“Yes… yes… Who are you?”

 

She licked her lips. “K-Kitty Riley.”

 

Molly’s breath hitched. The woman that had destroyed Sherlock.

 

“…Sherlock wasn’t a fake,” Molly said without thinking.

 

“I… I know… I know, I’m so sorry—I didn’t—he tricked me, he made me believe, he lied to me… he made it sound so reasonable and logical when he said it,” Kitty whispered frantically, trying to explain herself. “I never dreamed it was something like this—I never wanted Sherlock dead, I never meant to lie—I… you have to believe me.”

 

Molly paused. “…I do.”

 

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry…”

 

“And now he’s done with you,” Molly breathed.

 

She nodded. “S-said he’d kill me, but I—I’m still useful. I don’t know what—I don’t know what that means—Oh, God, I don’t want to know…”

 

“Hey, hey,” Molly said gently. “Shh. We’ll… we’ll be okay, Kitty.”

 

Kitty’s tear-filled eye looked up at Molly again. “Y-you think so?”

 

Molly wasn’t sure, but she said, “Yes. We just… we have to stick together and trust each other, Kitty. But we’ll be okay.”

 

Kitty Riley nodded, choking back sobs. “Okay… Okay.”


End file.
